


The Resolution of Stars

by RisenHunterFallenAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, High School Student Castiel, High School Student Dean, Human Castiel, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years, Teenage Castiel/Teenage Dean Winchester, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisenHunterFallenAngel/pseuds/RisenHunterFallenAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's annual New Year's Eve plans are compromised when Dean abandons them in favor of celebrating with his girlfriend. Thus, Castiel finds himself at home on the night of the 31st of December, with no plans other than to drink and read alone while the rest of the world rings in the new year. </p><p>But those plans, too, are shot to hell when Dean tries to redeem himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Resolution of Stars

**Author's Note:**

> There is no use in reminding me that the Holidays are over, for I am in denial. So here's another NYE destiel fic for those of you who, like me, have already depleted the existing supply. Enjoy, and have a very happy New Year!

Castiel is convinced that he has reached a new low in this pathetic existence of his — impressive by even his standards. By his reckoning, it is probable that he is the only teenager in the world who doesn’t have plans for New Year’s Eve. It’s certainly not for lack of desire, for even he, notoriously introverted as he is, can concede that ringing in the new year is as valid a reason as any to have a party. 

He just didn’t get invited to any. 

Well, that isn’t strictly true, but he didn’t get invited to any parties he could actually stomach attending. Jo is hosting her annual gathering at the Roadhouse, to which he has a standing invitation, but he didn’t much see the point of accepting given that he’d have to spend the whole evening watching Dean wrestle tongues with Bela Talbot. 

Every year, without fail, for as long as he could remember, he and Dean had spent New Year’s Eve together. When they were kids, it was at whatever lame social get-together their parents dragged them along to; when they reached middle school, it was a night of video games, movie marathons, too-sweet candy and too much soda; and when they finally got to high school, they started going to Jo’s parties, where they drank too-strong liquor and smoked too much and even though Dean made sure to flirt shamelessly with someone to guarantee himself a New Year’s kiss, he always arrived with Cas, and he always left with him too. 

But not this year. 

This year, Dean was bringing a date, so Castiel knew, from the moment Dean told him, that he wasn’t going to fit in the picture. How could he? Dean was going to pick Bela up and take her to the Roadhouse, where he’d doubtless spend his evening getting her drinks and dancing with her, all the while keeping her enticed with clever lines and dirty smirks. Cas didn’t want to speculate about what would transpire once the party wound down and Dean took her home. Regardless, with such a loaded agenda, Dean wouldn’t possibly have enough time for his best friend, too. Cas knew, objectively, that this unprecedented development shouldn’t have deterred him from going and having a good time with his other friends, yet it managed to do so quite effectively. Despite Jo’s reassurances, Charlie’s pleas, and Balthazar’s bribes, he felt not one bit compelled to make an appearance at the party. Because, well, seeing the object of your unrequited affections get handsy all night with a girlfriend you have four classes with is an entirely different animal than seeing him get a peck at midnight from yet another nameless girl looking for a good time when the clock strikes twelve, never again to be seen or heard from.

Thus, Castiel declined Jo’s invitation, which is why he is home alone at 10 o’clock on December 31st of his senior year. Clad in ratty, stained pyjamas, he finds himself with only a six-pack of Guinness, an astronomy textbook, and morose resentment as company. 

His evening isn’t entirely terrible, he decides, two stouts and an hour and thirty minutes into his reading. Stars are cool. He loves stars. Stars don’t drive muscle cars or play baseball or have stupidly green eyes and they sure as hell don’t get themselves girlfriends or go to parties or flake on yearly traditions with their best friends and inadvertently leave them disconsolate. Stars are enormous flaming spherical masses comprised of plasma: they’re dependable and predictable. 

Distraction from Castiel’s comparative analysis comes in the form of a succession of knocks against his bedroom window. Without looking through the pane of glass, Cas knows who awaits him on the other side. He hasn’t the faintest idea why he’s clinging to the second-story exterior of his house at 11:30 pm on New Year’s Eve, nor what happened to his date, nor how long he’s going to stay; but what he does know is that it’s Dean. After all, only he would be reckless enough to scale the side of Cas’s house and enter through his bedroom window in lieu of ringing the doorbell and crossing the threshold like any reasonable human would. 

With a well-practiced eye-roll, Cas walks over to the window and opens it. 

“Howdy, partner,” Dean says with a wink.

Castiel arches an eyebrow questioningly. “What are you doing?”

Dean hoists himself through the frame and into the bedroom, collapsing into an undignified heap on the floor. He lands with a thud, and from where he lies, sprawled on the ground, he replies: “Making good of my New Year’s resolution, starting as soon as it’s midnight.”

“I admire your commitment to self-improvement, Dean, but why does it require climbing into my bedroom?”

“Because,” Dean supplies, “my resolution is to be a better friend. Can’t really do that if you’re not around, Cas.” He pulls himself up off the floor. “So what’s wrong? Why weren’t you at the Roadhouse?” 

Cas shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going.”

Dean smirks. “You’re a shit liar.” He sits on the edge of the bed, and motions for Cas to take a seat next to him. “C’mon, Cas, you can tell me. What’s up?”

Cas stays where he is, a comfortable distance from Dean. He fears that close proximity will make him nervous, that he’ll lash out or reveal things he’d rather leave unmentioned. “Nothing’s up, and I’m not lying. I just wasn’t feeling up to it,” he says, and takes a long drink of Guinness to stop himself from saying more.

It’s obvious that Dean doesn’t buy into Cas’s answer, but he has the decency to not press the issue further. He presses a different one instead — one Castiel feels even less compelled to discuss. “Why didn’t you tell me that you weren’t gonna go?” Dean asks, shouldering off his backpack.

Now, Cas is wildly talented at a great many things, but holding grudges against Dean, regardless of the severity of their discord, has never been one of them. On this occasion, however, he feels his bitterness is quite well-justified. Despite a traitorous recess of his subconscious pleading him to forgive and forget, the next words to pass Cas’s lips are accusatory and petulant; saturated with disappointment: “Why the hell didn’t you think to ask?” 

Dean’s usual self-satisfied smirk falls all at once. “Christ, Cas, I’m really sorry. I had just assumed you were gonna be there. We always go to the Roadhouse.”

Cas lets out a short, dry laugh. “You’re right, Dean, we do. But it’s also always just us two. I thought three would be a bit of a crowd, so it seemed better for me to stay at home. I didn’t want to get in the way.” His words are brusque and have more of an edge to them than he intended. Regardless, they must have been the outlet he needed, for he begins to feel his anger ebb away.

Dean freezes, and his eyes go wide with realization. “Shit! Cas, I…. ” He meets Cas’s gaze with his own,  bewildered and pleading. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want me to take Bela? Cas, I never wanted you to think that I didn’t want you there with me. I am so sorry.”

With Dean’s apology, Cas feels the remainder of his resentment dissipate. He sighs, “I know that’s not what you meant Dean, and that’s precisely why I didn’t say anything. You should be able to take your girlfriend to a party without me throwing a tantrum. I overreacted.”

Dean offers an apologetic smile, and motions for Cas to sit next to him on the bed again. “No. I fucked up, Cas. I thought you were gonna be there, but I should’ve known better. ‘Cause New Year’s Eve? It’s always been our thing, and I blew you off. I was really stupid, and I’m really sorry ‘bout it. But, Cas, you gotta believe me, I ditched Bela and all the rest ‘em to come here the moment I realized you weren’t gonna show, honest.” He holds his hand out to Cas, who still hasn’t sat down, but it drops limply to his side a few moments later when Cas doesn’t take it. 

“Why did you leave Bela?” Cas asks, quietly. “You could’ve called to apologize, and I still would’ve forgiven you, you know that. Why bother with coming here?”

Dean swallows. “Because she’s not you.” His voice is raw and vulnerable. “If I have to pick between you and someone else, Cas, I’m gonna choose you everytime -- no contest. 

Castiel is ephemerally paralyzed by the rush of euphoria that courses through him when the implication of Dean’s words dawns on him. He recovers use of his faculties after a few seconds of shock-still silence, and stares at Dean earnestly to convey the appreciation he can’t articulate. “Well I’m sorry I ruined your plans for the evening, Dean. I should’ve gone; you shouldn't have had to choose.”

Dean scoffs. “You didn’t ruin a damn thing, Cas. This is all on me.” He pats the side of the bed again, more urgently. “And I’m trying to make it up to you, so would you please sit your ass down? I have a really nice gesture planned, but I’m not gonna be able to do it before midnight unless you help me out here,” he says, and tries out another smile. 

This time, Cas returns it. 

“Okay,” Cas says, taking a seat, “Impress me, Winchester.” 

Dean beams at him, and reaches out to give his shoulder a quick, contrite squeeze before focusing his attention on his backpack. “It was gonna be a surprise for your birthday, but when I was leaving the Roadhouse I made a quick detour by my house ‘cause I thought you’d need cheering up from whatever it was that made you wanna stay home.” He fixes Cas a serious stare. “You’re gonna have to lay down, close your eyes, and promise not to open ‘em ‘til I tell you to open ‘em. Got it?” 

“Yes, I think I’ll manage,” Cas chuckles, and situates himself according to Dean’s instructions. 

Seconds tick by, and anticipation surges and curls within Cas with the calamity of crashing waves in quarreling seas. Dean works swiftly, and gives no indication of the plan he has concocted save for the sound of his flipping the light switch to cut off the lights. “No peeking,” he says, every ten seconds until finally - _ finally _ \- he lays down, too, and whispers, “Alright, Cas. Whenever you’re ready.”

If Cas knew what he was getting ready for, he might have taken a moment longer to prepare himself. When he opens his eyes, he sees the infinity of space above them, hanging but nine feet overhead. His ceiling is a canvas depicting the majesty of space, painted with a kaleidoscopic assortment of luminous blues, mauves, and whites. The stars dance above them, brilliant and shining, mimicking the Earth’s curvature and the changing of the skyscape with the progression of the seasons. Cas releases an audible gasp at the sight. He knows precisely what this is, but he can’t quite believe that he’s seeing it. The myriad of colors and galaxies ornamenting his ceiling are being projected above them by a home planetarium he’s been wanting for  _ ages.  _ Dean knew, of course, for Cas couldn’t go a day without staring longfully at the device on Amazon. Dean must have worked overtime at the repair shop for  _ weeks _ to afford this. 

Overwhelmed with adoration as he is, Cas can’t muster up the coherence to express his gratitude. “ _ Dean… _ ” he starts, after a moment. There’s a long pause as he tries to decide how to continue, because there are so many words he can choose from, but Dean deserves more than the cumulative sum of every single one. In the end, he settles for the one thing that makes sense, though it alone doesn’t do his feelings justice. “I love you,” he finally says, the words nothing more than a quiver. 

Truly, he can’t fathom that the sentiment would be at all reciprocated. He doesn’t expect Dean to say it back -hell, doesn't even know if he heard it- but after a few painstaking moments, Dean reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. And that says it just as well.

No further words are exchanged for several minutes. Cas would wonder if Dean had fallen asleep were it not for the fact that he’s stroking Cas’s knuckles with his thumb. Dean turns on his side, and watches the play of the swirling colors and constellations reflected onto Cas’s face. He speaks without warning, his voice a breathless whisper: “It’s just ‘bout midnight….” 

Cas only hums absent-mindedly in response, because his heart is thrumming in his chest and there’s stars on his ceiling and  _ Dean loves him, too _ , and how the hell is he supposed to care about anything else when he has that knowledge?

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and Cas’s brain shorts out. 

He finds his voice, after some time, though it cracks on his last word: “You have a girlfriend.” He turns on his side to stare back at Dean, and hopes his eyes convey the longing he can’t make himself speak.

Dean’s features are twisted into an expression of equal parts disbelief and amusement. “Cas,  _ babe _ ,” he says, and the term of endearment makes Cas’s lungs constrict, “Bela’s gonna text me any moment now to break things off if she hasn’t already. She was  _ pissed _ that I left her at the Roadhouse.”  He moves a hand up to cup Cas’s face, and traces his bottom lip with his thumb. “And if she doesn’t, I’ll break up with her first thing in the morning.” He shifts fractionally closer, so Castiel can see the fire in his eyes and feel his shuddering breaths on his skin. “I meant what I said, Cas. I’m always gonna choose you.” 

Dean’s ministrations and words, weighted and sincere, make Cas’s nerve endings spark, and instill within him new-found conviction. To Hell with decency — he’s not going to bother denying himself this, not when it’s tangible and in front of him and he aches from how badly he wants it. He leans into Dean’s touch, placing a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I have a proposition,” he squeaks, because his throat has gone dry from the intensity of Dean’s heavy, lustful gaze. “You might have a girlfriend, but she’s not here," he swallows. "It would be truly tragic for you to go without a New Year’s kiss on account of her absence.”

Dean smirks. “Oh? And what’s your resolution to this problem?” His tongue shoots out to wet his lips. 

Cas inhales sharply, and exhales, trembling. “Kiss me platonically,” he whispers, “just until you and Bela are well and truly over.” He hopes the blues cast on his face are heavy enough to hide his blush. 

Dean chuckles. “Oh? Platonically?” His eyes flicker down to Cas’s lips, then back to his wide-eyed stare.

Cas leans forward so his nose brushes against Dean’s. “Yes, platonically.” He tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, and coerces, gently, “It’s midnight, after all.”

This time it’s Dean’s lungs that cease their function. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That works,” he says, his breath hitching in his throat with his reply. Then he pulls Cas’s head towards his gently, angling his own to slot their lips together at last.

Cas sees the stars behind his eyelids, feels them burning inside him.  

“This platonic enough for you, Cas?” Dean asks between slow, languid kisses. He feels Cas smiling against his lips. 

“No,” Cas replies, pulling away from Dean’s lips to nip at his jaw instead, fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his flannel shirt, “not at all.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was tolerable. As always, please leave me with any comments or criticisms you may have. Thank you!


End file.
